2 February 2016

My Deity

I
don’t know what the society has lost but the loss of traditional,
religious and moral imperatives made my playmate strong. Scathed by all,
she was now renewed into an epitome of liberty. Although she was
rejected by the world and tagged as a blasphemist, she did not care but
denounced her own identity. Being insanely motivating to Womanhood she
faced the challenges and met new people. She tried and understood the
very many shades of love and importance of moon in a lover’s life. She
made a travelling connection to life and joy and concretely blend
herself in audacity of awesomeness. The reinvigoration made her a
diehard storm catcher with unkempt hair and careless in style. The fiery
mess within her, now can sing lullabies and fly with her arms spread
wide. She has evolved through her life.

She
stepped into her new home. THEY said, ‘It was the world of joy and you
are the angel here’. Conversely, there was none to participate her joy,
she was assailed by disappointment, no one was there to endeavor and
sustain her in dejection. Then she remembered the words that was
whispered to her ears by her mother, ‘however bad the consequences were,
she has to abide by her in-laws’. A mixed feelings of anger,
disappointment and strange kind of sadness clouded her. Her husband
touched her bare back without permission every single night, demanded
kiss from her, teared her lips brutally, and squeezed her breast. He
tortured her more than he loved her. She groaned out of pain- shouted,
wept, yelled. The dogs whined outside, the frogs croaked and the
crickets cried. Everything seemed to be strange but nothing beseemed
bright. She be mindful and for sake of her mother’s esteem kept her
emotions undemonstrated. Her existence each day became an agonizing
experience. The modern malice seemed to control her plight and become
claustrophobic each passing day. She wanted to shout out loud, fill her
heart, breathe fresh air and quench her thirst.

She was thankful to be born again,
to be established imperfect, to lose her so call dignity. She set out
of her cloned perfection and false dreams and called herself to be Free.
Rationality itched her, morality bit like the sting of bee. Her tale
bearing tongue and tale-tell eyes told us stories that made me cry
bitterly in glee.

Absorbed in
thoughts, turning the statement into question, she asked me, if she
could change the world, make them see through her own eyes, and question
them ‘what exactly was femininity?’ She (the mind) was bred by anxiety,
the brutal conqueror within her born out of the oppression in her very
own heart. She enquired herself a million times, ‘’Why she felt
humiliated and dejected when nobody wanted her on their team, what made
her so anxious to know about her own corporeal form and why her taste
was different from another ‘she’? ‘’ . I wish I could decipher the
comprehension of her melancholic eyes, because she mattered so much to
me. I plainly uttered, ‘Two kinds of birds are in same nest, and each
one has her share of nature’s plentitude’. She released a smile and that
felt joy of relief began to dance inside of me.

Her
boulder was more eye-catching, a creature so beautiful and adorable.
She edited my personality, wrapped my happiness around me, loyal to me
as always,& came to my rescue at times of uncertainty. I could well
understand that she capered a little caper inside her, toiled for her
all day long and rearranged a smile every time she lost hope. My
girlhood friend, who used to be so silent, play upon my cheeks
physically and emotionally, is now a grown up lady who don’t sing

songs
for herself but sails over a calm emotion on her own.

Faith
in progress and fear of materialistic enslavement and bewildering
change in outward and inward ways of life set us apart physically. From
there, from that place and from that time we were materialized
automatically. Traditional values were thrusted upon her, customized and
sanctioned by family. She looked happy when the world was holding her
up. Conchs blew, her forehead resembled pretty much like the scarlet
morning though she kept as quiet as dawn.

One
starlit night she walked down the street without a tinge of vermillion,
put on boxers and strolled in the dark. The gloom of her inner world
connected her with the gloom that was farther from the center of her
inside. The savages whistled and made lewd remarks at her. The
insecurity terrified her. The authority instructed her. The older
generation cursed her. A distinction which makes no difference is
that—THEY all questioned marked her ‘femaleness’.